“It will break you,” the Senator murmured, quietly.  “You are getting ahead just as fast as it is possible, Snell.  Cut out this grave-robbing stuff and make some real friends.  Understand?  You need friends of the right sort, and this is your chance.”

For some time longer the two men talked guardedly.  At last the Inspector rose to leave, saying:  “I think I have all the details now, and I’ll scatter the gang as quick as possible.  I can hang something on the woman easily enough, and the boys, too, but it’s different with Max.  He has a drag.”

“Leave Max to me.  Do you need money?”

“Not from your friends, Senator,” the officer disclaimed, hastily.  “I’m only too glad to help out in any way I can.”

To Bob Wharton the suspense of the next few days was trying in the extreme, particularly as Merkle kept declaring there was nothing to report, while Jimmy Knight betrayed an apprehension so pitiable as well-nigh to banish suspicion of his complicity in the plot.  But before long there came to pass in various quarters certain events which gave Bob cause for thought.  Strangely enough, these events, one and all, had some effect, either direct or indirect, upon the habitues of Tony the Barber’s place.  To begin with, Tony himself was summoned to headquarters and forced to spend a distressing half-hour with a harsh, ill-natured police official, as a result of which the pinochle-room at the rear of the barber-shop was closed and the door nailed up.  With an unnatural show of indignation Tony warned its frequenters to stay away from his shop.  Naturally he had recourse to Melcher, who promised to square the misunderstanding.  But for once Melcher failed.  When his efforts proved fruitless he was puzzled.  So was Tony.  The man upon whom Max relied for help was likewise at a loss, and finally hazarded the opinion that Tony must have made an enemy of somebody “higher up.”

This chilling phenomenon was still a subject of discussion when Armistead was arrested for selling cocaine.  Now Armistead’s addiction to the drug was well known—­in fact, he readily confessed to it—­but, knowing only too well the risks involved in its sale, he had never even contemplated such a thing.  He was outraged and incredulous, but a dope-shattered derelict swore out a complaint against him, and when Armistead’s room was searched, strange to relate, the police discovered a considerable amount of cocaine concealed therein.  Bail was fixed at an unusually high figure even for a felony, and Max Melcher wondered vaguely as he arranged to meet it.

Misfortunes multiplied rapidly.  On the very next day Young Sullivan was caught picking pockets in the Times Square Subway station and once more Max was forced to journey jail-ward.  Sullivan’s story gave his chief still more occasion for thought, for this arrest seemed plainly “a frame,” being absurd upon its face.  The pugilist had huge, misshapen paws that could scarcely explore his